


Grandson of Nine Mothers

by Arnirien



Category: Role-Playing Games, Scion (Tabletop RPG)
Genre: Gen, Mythology - Freeform, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Superpowers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5187350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnirien/pseuds/Arnirien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xavier's visitation is more awkward than some, more informative than most. But like any divine intervention, it signals big changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grandson of Nine Mothers

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks are due to D, who helped shape this character with their excellent ideas.
> 
> Disclaimer: The Scion Role-Playing Game is owned by White Wolf Publishing Company. I have rights to nothing. I just write (and play), with deep appreciation.

Xavier avoided the question. He paced across the plush rug, then stopped to lean against the ornate mirror over the dressing table. His sister sat on the bench in front of it, gazing at her own reflection. Her red hair was swept back into an elegant twist. The dusting of freckles that danced across her nose was the only interruption of her fair skin. Her white gown’s train was draped carefully behind her, and her veil was drawn back.

"You know how I feel about it, Sarah,” he finally began. “Frankly, it's quixotic and incredible and absurd. It’s - " Xavier stopped, seeing the tears pooling behind her eyes. His voice softened, and he squatted beside her and took her small hands in his. "...it’s brave,” he finished.

Her face was still creased with worry. “How can I know if I’m doing the right thing?”

“You can’t,” Xavier told her. “Marriage is an act of faith. But,” he said, squeezing her hands, “David is a good man, and you love each other. You share goals, beliefs, ideals...if any couple I’ve ever known could make it work, you two can. You give me hope.”

Then Sarah smiled. “Don’t tell me you hope to find someone, now,” she teased.

Xavier stood up. “Hardly,” he answered archly, smoothing his silver tie.

A knock came at the door, and Sarah’s maid of honor poked her head inside. “Ready?” she asked.

With a flourish, Xavier offered his hand to his sister and helped her stand. He guided her to the door of the dressing room. “Congratulations,” he said, with only a small catch in his voice. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then swiveled ‘round and disappeared down the hallway to rejoin David and the other groomsmen.

 

* * *

 

 A few hours into the reception, Xavier found himself seated alone at the bar on the terrace. The music was still audible from the dance floor inside, but the booming quality at least was lessened. He looked in through the tall windows, watching the two families mingle, laugh, and celebrate together. He was happy for his sister, his only sibling - well, at least till now. He could see David, his new brother-in-law, flushed with color, leading one lady relative after another around the dance floor. Every few minutes, though, he returned to Sarah. And oh, how Sarah glowed with happiness. Some of her fiery hair had come loose from the bun and hung down around her face. Her eyes glistened, and her usually rare laugh came forth again and again.

Xavier had danced just the one dance, with Sarah, at the beginning, in their father’s place. As the evening had worn on, he had been offered dance partners by one well-meaning relative after another. Still, he had already spoken with the members of the family he seldom had the privilege to see, and now he was perfectly content to sip a glass of wine and bear witness to the festivities.

The bartender paused his absentminded polishing of glassware, and spoke over Xavier’s shoulder. “What can I get you, sir?”

A gruff voice replied goodnaturedly, “Scotch’s the best you’ve got, I’ll wager.” The man was broad shouldered and solid, wore a well tailored suit in white, and had a thick brown beard. He slid onto the stool directly beside the brother of the bride, and surveyed him intently.

Xavier stared back, unabashed and in no hurry for talk. He was sure he had never seen this man before.

“Well then,” the stranger began, clapping a large hand onto Xavier’s slim shoulder, “How’s business?”

Xavier was not accustomed to discussing his work with people he did not know. “It goes well,” he replied. “Thank you,” came out as an afterthought.

“Mmm,” the stranger grunted, still staring intently into Xavier’s eyes. The bartender appeared with the requested scotch, and the man retracted his hand to curl it around the glass. “Tell me, Xavier,” he asked, “do you miss your father?”

Xavier swallowed hard, but his voice was steady when he replied, “Of course.”

“He was a good man, you know. Very solid. Honest.”

“You knew my father?”  
  
A sparkle appeared in the stranger’s eyes. “Not as well as I knew your mother. But aye, I knew him.” He took a sip of the scotch, looked down at it critically, then set the glass aside. He drew a slender cigarette case out of his jacket pocket. “Want one?” he asked, extending the case toward Xavier.

“No, thank you.”

The stranger shrugged and deftly lit a cigarette for himself with an ornate lighter. He took a long draw and let out the smoke slowly. “I’m afraid I have some...difficult news.”

Xavier remained silent, looking expectantly at the stranger, who finally spoke again. “I’m Heimdall.” He looked at Xavier carefully, evidently awaiting a response.

Xavier’s knowledge of Norse mythology was not extensive, but he recognized the name. “That’s...an unusual name,” he replied slowly.

“ _The_ Heimdall,” said Heimdall.

“Oh,” said Xavier. He wondered briefly if the man might be mad.

“You’re probably wondering if I’m mad,” Heimdall continued, almost sadly. “That’s quite understandable, really.” He swirled his glass of scotch. “Still, it’s true.”

“That you’re mad?”

“That I’m Heimdall,” he said sharply.

“I see.”

Heimdall sighed. “Listen, this isn’t how I wanted to tell you. But hard times are ahead, and I need you to be prepared for them.”  He paused, looked at Xavier intently. “You’re my son.”

Xavier’s usually carefully composed features slipped. His eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Well, back in ‘83, your mother and I met in this pub outside Holon. It was the most beautiful night. We wandered the city streets together until sunrise, and then -” Heimdall cleared his throat. “I suppose you don’t want to hear about that.”

Xavier only stared at him.

“Anyway, it was before she met your dad,” Heimdall said gently, “I actually rather set them up, tell you the truth. It was this wonderful bit with a chicken and a fountain pen…”

Xavier pushed his glass to the edge of the bar and stood. “I’m afraid I’ve heard enough. Have a good evening.” He started to walk away, but Heimdall strode after him.

“Here,” he said, pressing the cigarette case into Xavier’s hand. “A little something from me. An heirloom, you might say.”

Xavier shook his head. “I can’t accept this.”

Heimdall’s face darkened, and his voice took on a deep resonance. “You can and you will accept it!” He took hold of Xavier’s arm. “You’re my flesh and blood!”

“Xavier?”

Both men turned at the clear sound of the woman’s voice. Xavier’s mother stood in the doorway to the terrace, smiling as she called for her son. While Xavier watched, her eyes fell on Heimdall and her face paled. Looking stricken, she sank momentarily as if her knees were weak.

“Mother!” Xavier exclaimed, rushing to her side with long strides. He guided her to a bench, and the two sat down. “What’s the matter?” he asked her.

“It was the strangest thing. I thought I saw someone, standing just over there, beside you.”

Xavier whirled and looked around the terrace. The covered lamps around the borders illuminated much of the garden, but the stranger was nowhere to be seen.

“It must have been a trick of the light,” his mother said firmly, sounding relieved.

“Who did you see?” Xavier asked.

“I thought...well, someone from a lifetime ago. It was just my imagination, I’m sure.” She reached out and clasped Xavier’s hand. “Occasions like this make you remember old times.”

Xavier discovered he was still holding the cigarette case.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, a wilted Xavier swiped into his hotel room. He had stayed to see the bride and groom off on their honeymoon, then to say goodbye to the myriad of family members who had assembled. Lastly, he had walked his mother to her own room down the hall and made sure she was comfortable. It was almost a relief he only had one sister - the pomp and circumstance was once and truly over.

Xavier stepped into the hotel room, toed out of his loafers, and placed them neatly just inside the doorway. Loosening his tie, he reached out and fumbled to flick on the lights. At first he saw the room just as he had left it: open suitcase with neatly folded clothing inside, small office setup carefully constructed at the desk, and the bed remade by his own hand, not the maid’s.

The second time his eyes swept the room, though, they fell on something new. He froze. In the center of the bed, propped against the pillows, was a small package wrapped in grey cloth. Xavier quickly shut the door, then ducked his head in the small bathroom and closet - no one else was in the room. Even the window was still firmly latched from the inside.

Xavier sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. He reached out and picked up the small bundle. A thin silver chain was wrapped around it. When he slid the chain free, he noticed that a small wooden whistle, with the five-fingered hamsa symbol carved into it, was attached. Unwrapping the cloth, he found a slip of paper curled around a golden pocket telescope. The note read:

“For Xavier, tokens of my love and protection. May you see far into the future, but always look over your back.”

It was signed simply “H.”

Xavier’s first thought was to call the hotel desk to report the unsettling invasion of his room. But his second thought was how lovely the carving on the whistle was, and how excellent the craftsmanship of the telescope. Both objects seemed familiar, as though they had always belonged to him. With a sudden, swift motion, Xavier pulled the silver chain around his neck and fastened the clasp. He was momentarily surprised at himself, but somehow the weight of the whistle against his chest was reassuring. Then he slid his suit jacket over the back of a chair and slipped the little telescope, with its note, into the breast pocket. Too tired to think any more of it, he fell into bed.

That night, for the last time for a long while, he did not dream.

 


End file.
